


the absence of gifts

by Gildedstorm



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, do I delight in writing petty disputes in the most dramatic and weighty setting possible? yes, in which chirraek is very tired, tfw an orb barges into ur office to lecture u about ur job, the joking title of this is orbsplaining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 01:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedstorm/pseuds/Gildedstorm
Summary: Toland the Shattered's curiosity does not limit him to haunting and lecturing only Guardians from afar, much to general dismay.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	the absence of gifts

Chirraek is decades-deep in the planning of Titan’s broods when the intruder drifts into their throne world, skimming over needle-thin boundaries and edges limned in bloated starlight. They allow this, because they are busy and if they stopped to chase out every would-be invader, they would never get anything done.

It is only when he shows no signs of hunting for secrets (not that there are many secrets to be found, they have pried loose too much knowledge from the eager and desperate tongues of acolytes to trust even this sliver of reality to be unassailable) that they turn their attention to him.

He is a spark of a mind, pinned to a death and defined in the dying. Sharp enough to navigate the layered edges of these spaces, and his death loops around him. Not untouchable, but troublesome if one isn’t skilled enough to unravel that woven process.

They could attempt it, but they have better things to be doing. Besides, sending the youngest wizards to record his wanderings is a good way to keep them out of the way, and temper youthful arrogance.

But he is close enough now to see what they are working on, and they banish the projections across Titan’s depths.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the spark says, voice thrumming in pleasant imitation of Hive harmonics. “I was hoping to watch you at your work.”

They veil their surprise in silence. Chirraek’s duty is vital to the coven and its burgeoning armies, but it is also _dull_. There are no glories here, no sudden triumphs or paths to secrets that carve closer to the universe’s final shape. Just tasks with blunted teeth, arranging matches and assessing lineages and planning broods.

If they were to die a final death, no one would vie for their place, and that is one of the reasons why they yet live. Savathûn is the furthest thing from a fool, and while the Hive must be a sword that sharpens itself on its wounds, a sword cannot build ships, or carve fortresses. A blade knows only the act of cutting, what it has gone through and what it has yet to touch.

So a space must be made for those in the Hive who attend only to the Hive. Not a coveted space, but a necessary one, and Chirraek prefers it this way.

An unexpected interest is usually the mark of a threat.

“You keep yourself well guarded. It took a winding path to reach here, and the blades were the least of my worries.”

“Do you expect praise for your intrusion?” they ask, caution a dull edge. He shows no respect here, in the space carved out by their will, and their worm gnaws at them for it. The ascendant realms, like the Deep itself, do not abide the thought of equals.

But Chirraek is accustomed to the bite of this particular hunger, and allows it, even as the vindictive ache lodges deep within their chest.

“Praise would be a gift, wouldn’t it? And there are no gifts here.”

“No.” Quiet and dry as the barest rustle of wings.

“No gifts,” he repeats, softer now, musing. “And yet here you are, shaping victories not your own. You do not sharpen yourself in the study of death. No, you deal with the planning of _life_.”

“Someone must,” they say and add, disdainfully for his condescension makes them want to drink the wisp of his death down, “You reek of Oryx’s court. So clear-sighted. So loudly insistent.” He flares bright curiosity-alarm, too intrigued to flee though their impatience is plucking at the air now, urging it to brittle clarity.

“You don’t approve?”

They could say that he pinned his life to the argument the Hive live and conquer and die for, and was killed for it, but that is too close to heresy even in the Coven. Such things are not spoken aloud, where gods can hear.

“We are more practical here,” they say instead. “There is nothing as practical as a secret.”

“A sentiment some of your enemies share. I don’t suppose you’ve met...? The Queen of the Awoken wanders northward sometimes.” He dances back and forth on the blurred edge of mockery. “Or so I’ve heard.”

They do not have so much time left to them that they can bear to have it wasted. Chirraek gestures and he tries to slip back through the thin veil between sword realms, but they make a cage of their regard and slam their will behind it.

There is a sound that might be a hastily drawn breath, if he had breath or lungs to speak of. An echo of contained air.

The moment in which they study each other is far too brief for their liking. “Am I yet another curse for your hungry jaws?” he asks, voice low and bitter with knowledge.

That he knows them, knows _of_ them, stings, even though this is the game played within the High Coven. He has learned quickly, to play it so well. “You are a speck of will,” they say. “Chained to a dirge.”

He crackles and flares. If they cared to, they could look closer and lay bare the bindings of the deathsong, pluck at notes until they unspooled into white noise, and it tore either him or them apart. Perhaps both. Chirraek’s worm whets its appetite on the thought of it.

The cage will not last long once they no longer hold him in their mind. Knowing this, they turn away.

“Wait – where are you going?” he demands, and they bare their teeth in a silent hiss, too resentful to triumph in this victory, small as it is.

“There are no answers to be found here. Do not intrude again.”

For his sake they conjure up a projection of the most tedious, meaningless data they have – thrall distribution from the broods they had overseen, sorted by planet and year. Let him sink teeth into that until he can escape, for all the good it will do him.

His existence might be key in one of the Witch-Queen’s countless plans. Chirraek would not bet against it. But even if it were not, why should they be the one to risk unravelling those delicate, lethal bindings? He might invade the thrones of their rivals next, and grant them some measure of peace from ambitious schemes.

Mercy would be a gift, and there are no gifts here. This is merely a matter of priorities.

The assurance is an empty thing, and Chirraek carries the hunger with them as they descend deeper into their throne, to places that a particularly curious mind will not reach so easily.

When the shattered one leaves, it is in silence, and with the contemptuous feeling of being well and truly ignored. Given the circumstances, Chirraek considers it a victory, no matter how petty.


End file.
